Incest story grandma

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Incest story grandma

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Come to think on it, I'd never seen Granny Kay out and about anywhere; not anywhere. I'd only ever known her in the confines of her small kitchenette.

I had never seen her in town; not in the co-operative supermarket, Munroe's Butchers, nor the fish mongers or Kemp's fruit market.

I had never seen her at Mass on a Sunday, either, which in itself was not only very strange, but a mortal sin.

I've asked Mum a time or two if there was ever a Mr. Kay, or any grown up son or daughter who might perhaps live across town and visit only on those days when I was at school, someone who mowed her lawn, trimmed her hedges, cleaned and polished her windows, for surely there was someone, but mum just shook her head and changed the subject.

Granny Kay, as always, sat, arms folded on the padded wooden chair, her slippered feet resting upon a cushion on the opened oven door, nylons rolled about her ankles.

I gazed into the oven and took in the row of small blue flame. It was no more than a quarter of an inch high, providing the barest level of comfort to the small dimly lighted kitchenette.

Granny Kay unfolded her arms and gathered a blue, string, knit cardigan about her shoulders. I looked into a face that seemed to be forever smiling, eyes that forever played with my own.

If I raised my eyebrows, Granny Kay would raise her eyebrows. If I frowned, Granny Kay would frown. At least that's how it seemed to me.

I don't know why I called her Granny Kay, for Granny Kay was not at all my Granny; not at all anyone's Granny so far as I knew, but for as long as I can remember Granny Kay had been Granny Kay by name, unless in her presence, in which case I'd come to understand that one should call her Mrs.

It was true that mum did suggest I say hello on her behalf, but that was as far back as I can remember. Nowadays, when I tell her that I've been to see Granny Kay, mum only nods her head and changes the subject, but I thought it only polite to continue to mention that mum was asking after her.

I will," I said, my eyes moving to the door which barred the entrance to a room that most likely had never heard laughter at Christmas, whose skirting boards had never felt the bump of a misguided Tonka truck, a room whose doors remained tightly shut, undamaged and unmarked by the pen-knives of growing children.

Now, as always, it was closed tight, with the addition of a rolled up towel on the floor in front of it to stop draughts. I would mention Granny Kay's request to mum, but I knew mum would never come to visit.

Somewhere in the past mum and Granny Kay had been good friends, but for reasons I'll never know, all that had been spoiled.

Lifting my eyes from the rolled up towel I disclosed the sole purpose of my visit. Dud matches were a great source of fun in those days.

A couple of boxes of dud matches, a bit of dirt by the curb and two or three of your newest Hot Wheels and an afternoon was never long enough.

Wooden cabins could be built with dud matches, Roads could be constructed. Ranches with Corrals could appear out of nowhere.

It didn't matter that the Seventh Cavalry were the good guys, with the German army, as always, being the baddies; a few of Robin Hood's Merry Men making up the shortfall.

It didn't matter that the Germans had a Confederate cannon, or that the British army were using a Morris Minor for a tank; somehow it all fell into place with the dud matches and Granny Kay was my only supplier.

Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand.

I will," I replied, picking each box carefully from the old woman's hand. She leaned forward then, her double stringed necklace of blue and green glass rasping in front of my face.

Granny Kay sat back, nodding knowingly even before I had answered. Her ancient mouth opened with a silent chuckle. Leaning forward once more, the necklace rasping in front of my sweater, Granny Kay relayed information that even PC Quigley ought not to know, "You were picking brambles in the quarry!

I could feel my face redden, even before Granny Kay had rested her old back against the wooden chair. The quarry was a forbidden place, a place mum had often told us to keep away from -- so heaven help us.

One step too far and over you would go into Dead Man's Pool. Dead Man's Pool was a deep, dark body of stagnant water at the foot of the sheer cliff face.

Not to mock Granny Kay's warning, but just then I thought of how Me and Wiggy and Sticks had often leaned over the edge of the three hundred foot quarry, launching spits onto the skeletal remains of sheep that had not been as careful as us.

Sticks wiped his nose on the cuff of his sweater, as if to affirm the statement that followed. Granny Kay was waiting for an answer.

After giving a long lecture about traditions, grandma left the kitchen with mother-in-law and Raj slowly walked out of the kitchen without looking at me or saying a word.

I wanted to run over and hug him asking for an apology, but I could not. Dinner turned out to be great and grandma was very pleased. As we sat and ate, Raj was a little quieter than usual, and the memory of that afternoon's event kept bothering me.

Mother-in-law told me another thing that made me felt even worse. Raj had never before been scolded by grandma because he was her favorite grandson.

Okay, now I'm in real trouble for causing grandma to scold Raj. I could not wait for bedtime to sort things out with him.

Finally, it came and everyone settled into their bedrooms. Raj had gone in a bit earlier, and after switching off all the lights and locking all the doors, I walked into our room with a heavy heart, feeling guilty and sad.

It had been two weeks since we had spent time together. He was sitting at the edge of the bed facing the window. I walked up to him and sat next to him.

He was not looking at me. I touched his hand softly and said, "Darling, I'm so sorry I caused you trouble just now.

I really didn't mean to scream, and I didn't expect you to be home that early. Perhaps being so engrossed in cooking made me react in the way.

Please don't misunderstand. He still did not respond, and I really thought he was angry with me. I felt like crying for making the love of my life disappointed with me.

I waited a while but there was no response. I wanted to enter the bathroom and cry so I stood up and began walking. He took my hand.

As I turned to look at him, he looked up at me with an expression that I had never seen before. He had tears in his eyes. I immediately kneeled on the floor in front of him.

I gently touched his face and looked straight into his eyes. His eyes were tearing but his expression was not one of sadness. It was more like a satisfied and happy look.

I really didn't mean He stopped and looked at me. Of all the possible emotions, he was proud to have been scolded by his grandma? I am her favorite grandson and she never scolded me.

Today she did because of you. Even mum did not protest or scold you. This means that you are well adapting into this family and everyone loves you.

I could see the look in her eyes as she talked to you during dinner. Grandma adores you. I am so proud to be your husband.

You managed to adapt yourself into an unknown family in just a short time. My wife is so smart and I am proud of it," he added as he gently touched my face.

On the way there, I sat quietly in the back seat staring out the window. Mom on the phone, I am guessing she is talking to her new boyfriend.

I give her a stare of a sad face. I will not let you go stay at your dad. His lifestyle is not right. I did not say anything else for the rest of the way.

When we arrived at grandma house, Grandma was waiting, sitting and reading a book. Mom parked her car, jumps out excitedly, to hug grandma.

Grandma made her way toward the car. Even though I did not want to, I did. I gave grandma a hug and a kiss on her cheek.

The feeling inside my stomach twists and turns. My heartbeats felt as if it had tripled. Then I slowly walked toward the front door.

The house was very big and creepy looking from outside, but nice inside. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I did not because, it makes her angry.

I unpack my bags and place my shoes neatly against the wall inside the closet. Then I hear that growling sound again as usual. A very scary sound, like someone is in pain or something.

Then it stops. I turned around so fast and ran down the stairway. Is there anything you need? Grandma did you hear that strange noise?

You always hear strange noises, when you come to stay. It sounded like it was coming from the basement. Grandma laughed at me as if I were crazy or just making things up.

I laugh a little. Grandma dropped a pitcher of Kool-Aid breaking the pitcher. She curses, as she quickly dropped down on her knees to clean and soak up the Kool-Aid.

That she does not want me to see. Later that night after I ate dinner, I went up to my room to watch television. I can hear Grandma downstairs in the living area playing her oldies, and the smell of Marijuana aroma.

I was curious to find out what she is hiding in that basement. Grandma kept checking for me to see if I were asleep. It puzzled me w hy.

However, whatever down there I was soon to find o ut. I lay across my bed with a pillow under my chin, with support of my crossed arms.

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It's not that I was scared or afraid of being spotted and labeled a nosy parker, it was more a case of respect. You just did not go around staring into people's front rooms.

After all there was nothing to see. I spotted a mirror above the fireplace and an old mantle clock below; otherwise the walls were bare. There was no hint of ornaments of any sort, no pictures, nor family photographs.

There was only the clock on the mantle, ticking under a mirror whose reflection held the image of a bare lightbulb suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the room.

From that day on I wondered if Granny Kay ever ventured from her chair by the oven in the small kitchenette. Knocking timidly at the heavy wooden door, the large pull-down handle looming just above my forehead, I told myself I would wait for the beckoning call before pulling it down with an inward shove.

I really don't know why I visited Granny Kay, other than the fact that she provided dud matches and, though not very often, an empty bottle, which I could return to the store for thruppence worth of pineapple chunks.

Sometimes just sometimes, I'd hope there was no answer from behind that large wooden door. I stepped into the scent of natural gas and stewed tea, and a smell that reminded me of the back of the church on a wet Sunday night; lavender, moth balls and old wool.

The smell seemed to be emanating from an old red coat which hung limply from a peg behind the door. It struck me as odd, that old coat, and not merely for the fact that it was hung up in the kitchen to be something mum would call a sight for sore eyes.

It was odd in that I had never seen Granny Kay actually wear it. Come to think on it, I'd never seen Granny Kay out and about anywhere; not anywhere.

I'd only ever known her in the confines of her small kitchenette. I had never seen her in town; not in the co-operative supermarket, Munroe's Butchers, nor the fish mongers or Kemp's fruit market.

I had never seen her at Mass on a Sunday, either, which in itself was not only very strange, but a mortal sin.

I've asked Mum a time or two if there was ever a Mr. Kay, or any grown up son or daughter who might perhaps live across town and visit only on those days when I was at school, someone who mowed her lawn, trimmed her hedges, cleaned and polished her windows, for surely there was someone, but mum just shook her head and changed the subject.

Granny Kay, as always, sat, arms folded on the padded wooden chair, her slippered feet resting upon a cushion on the opened oven door, nylons rolled about her ankles.

I gazed into the oven and took in the row of small blue flame. It was no more than a quarter of an inch high, providing the barest level of comfort to the small dimly lighted kitchenette.

Granny Kay unfolded her arms and gathered a blue, string, knit cardigan about her shoulders. I looked into a face that seemed to be forever smiling, eyes that forever played with my own.

If I raised my eyebrows, Granny Kay would raise her eyebrows. If I frowned, Granny Kay would frown. At least that's how it seemed to me.

I don't know why I called her Granny Kay, for Granny Kay was not at all my Granny; not at all anyone's Granny so far as I knew, but for as long as I can remember Granny Kay had been Granny Kay by name, unless in her presence, in which case I'd come to understand that one should call her Mrs.

It was true that mum did suggest I say hello on her behalf, but that was as far back as I can remember.

Nowadays, when I tell her that I've been to see Granny Kay, mum only nods her head and changes the subject, but I thought it only polite to continue to mention that mum was asking after her.

I will," I said, my eyes moving to the door which barred the entrance to a room that most likely had never heard laughter at Christmas, whose skirting boards had never felt the bump of a misguided Tonka truck, a room whose doors remained tightly shut, undamaged and unmarked by the pen-knives of growing children.

Now, as always, it was closed tight, with the addition of a rolled up towel on the floor in front of it to stop draughts.

I would mention Granny Kay's request to mum, but I knew mum would never come to visit. Somewhere in the past mum and Granny Kay had been good friends, but for reasons I'll never know, all that had been spoiled.

Lifting my eyes from the rolled up towel I disclosed the sole purpose of my visit. Dud matches were a great source of fun in those days.

A couple of boxes of dud matches, a bit of dirt by the curb and two or three of your newest Hot Wheels and an afternoon was never long enough.

Wooden cabins could be built with dud matches, Roads could be constructed. Ranches with Corrals could appear out of nowhere.

It didn't matter that the Seventh Cavalry were the good guys, with the German army, as always, being the baddies; a few of Robin Hood's Merry Men making up the shortfall.

It didn't matter that the Germans had a Confederate cannon, or that the British army were using a Morris Minor for a tank; somehow it all fell into place with the dud matches and Granny Kay was my only supplier.

Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand.

I will," I replied, picking each box carefully from the old woman's hand. She leaned forward then, her double stringed necklace of blue and green glass rasping in front of my face.

Granny Kay sat back, nodding knowingly even before I had answered. Her ancient mouth opened with a silent chuckle.

Leaning forward once more, the necklace rasping in front of my sweater, Granny Kay relayed information that even PC Quigley ought not to know, "You were picking brambles in the quarry!

I could feel my face redden, even before Granny Kay had rested her old back against the wooden chair. The quarry was a forbidden place, a place mum had often told us to keep away from -- so heaven help us.

One step too far and over you would go into Dead Man's Pool. Dead Man's Pool was a deep, dark body of stagnant water at the foot of the sheer cliff face.

Not to mock Granny Kay's warning, but just then I thought of how Me and Wiggy and Sticks had often leaned over the edge of the three hundred foot quarry, launching spits onto the skeletal remains of sheep that had not been as careful as us.

Sticks wiped his nose on the cuff of his sweater, as if to affirm the statement that followed. Granny Kay was waiting for an answer. Turning from the window I said, "But I wasn't alone.

They followed again as I moved my eyes back to hers. Not that I'd ever utter what thoughts ran through my head, but Granny Kay's eyes were faster than the eyes of Jesus on mum's bedroom wall.

The rose made a kissing sound and Granny Kay said, "Do you like to pick brambles, Peter? Granny Kay nodded knowingly, the smiling lips drawn into her toothless jowls.

Mum once made jam with rhubarb, but I don't think I've ever seen a rhubarb pie. At that, Granny Kay rose from the chair, the string knit shawl slipping from her back as she reached and shut off the oven.

As I held my stainless steel bowl walking to the sink, he suddenly hugged me from behind. I screamed and let go of the bowl.

It fell on the floor with a such a loud noise that grandma and mother-in-law came running into the kitchen, wondering whether I was hurt.

I was shocked by my reaction. Why did I scream? It was not the first time he had done something like that.

In fact he hugs me in the kitchen so often that I'm so used to it. So why did I scream today? Perhaps I was not expecting him home that early that made me react that way.

I looked at Raj and he definitely had a shocked expression, not knowing what to do. In Indian homes, usually men are not allowed to enter the kitchen since it is the women's area.

However in today's culture it is no longer practiced. But grandma is an old lady with her old tradition. Grandma became a little upset and scolded Raj.

I could not make any comment react in any way. I looked at Raj and he looked down and just kept silent. Suddenly, I felt very guilty.

After giving a long lecture about traditions, grandma left the kitchen with mother-in-law and Raj slowly walked out of the kitchen without looking at me or saying a word.

I wanted to run over and hug him asking for an apology, but I could not. Dinner turned out to be great and grandma was very pleased.

As we sat and ate, Raj was a little quieter than usual, and the memory of that afternoon's event kept bothering me. Mother-in-law told me another thing that made me felt even worse.

Raj had never before been scolded by grandma because he was her favorite grandson. Okay, now I'm in real trouble for causing grandma to scold Raj. I could not wait for bedtime to sort things out with him.

Finally, it came and everyone settled into their bedrooms. Raj had gone in a bit earlier, and after switching off all the lights and locking all the doors, I walked into our room with a heavy heart, feeling guilty and sad.

It had been two weeks since we had spent time together. He was sitting at the edge of the bed facing the window.

I walked up to him and sat next to him. He was not looking at me. I touched his hand softly and said, "Darling, I'm so sorry I caused you trouble just now.

I really didn't mean to scream, and I didn't expect you to be home that early. Perhaps being so engrossed in cooking made me react in the way.

Please don't misunderstand. He still did not respond, and I really thought he was angry with me. I felt like crying for making the love of my life disappointed with me.

I waited a while but there was no response. I wanted to enter the bathroom and cry so I stood up and began walking. He took my hand.

As I turned to look at him, he looked up at me with an expression that I had never seen before. He had tears in his eyes. I immediately kneeled on the floor in front of him.

I gently touched his face and looked straight into his eyes. His eyes were tearing but his expression was not one of sadness. It was more like a satisfied and happy look.

I really didn't mean He stopped and looked at me. Of all the possible emotions, he was proud to have been scolded by his grandma? I am her favorite grandson and she never scolded me.

Today she did because of you. Even mum did not protest or scold you. This means that you are well adapting into this family and everyone loves you.

I could see the look in her eyes as she talked to you during dinner. Grandma adores you. I am so proud to be your husband.

You managed to adapt yourself into an unknown family in just a short time. My wife is so smart and I am proud of it," he added as he gently touched my face.

I was again taken by surprise. All evening I was so worried that he'd been scolded that I never thought of the incident as something to be proud of.

But Raj was right. I really have been accepted into his family.

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